


with measured and perfect motion

by mercutioes



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Secret Samol 2017, friendship is.................................good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 02:18:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13137051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutioes/pseuds/mercutioes
Summary: bread and metal between unlikely friends





	with measured and perfect motion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jagged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jagged/gifts).



> HAPPY SECRET SAMOL, EVERYONE!!!!
> 
> jag, thank you for the incredibly good prompt, i loved writing this a lot <3
> 
>  _(All is a procession,_  
>  _The universe is a procession with measured and perfect motion.)_  
>  \- “I Sing the Body Electric”, Walt Whitman

They’re stationed just outside Velisina – a town too small to be called a city but far too large to be a village.  A member of the Velasian council is there on diplomatic business, and the small cadre of security escorts have set up a semi-permanent camp at the border of the town for the two or three weeks they’ll be there.

Hadrian finds Hella near the cooking fire in the late afternoon, the sun just beginning to set.  As he approaches, he realizes that she’s lugged a flat stone over to  _ knead bread _ .  He’s caught for a moment in the unexpectedness of it – impractical for a woman who seems to do and be exactly what is necessary, no more or less.

“Want some help?”

Hella startles at his voice in the quiet of the campsite.  She eyes him dubiously.

“Do you know how?” she asks, and Hadrian can’t help but laugh at the doubtful quirk of her mouth.

“My wife taught me,” he says, taking a seat opposite her and reaching for the other half of the dough, risen but not yet kneaded.

They work in silence for a minute, maybe two, just the crackle of the fire and the low murmur of the other three escorts in one of the tents across the camp.

“Tell me about your wife,” Hella says finally, stilted in a way that suggests that she’s not all that used to small talk.  Hadrian covers his palms with more flour.

“Her name is Rosana,” he replies, eyes focused on the rhythmic push and pull.  “She’s a wonderful baker.  I met her through the church when I was young.”

“Is there anyone you haven’t met through the church?”  Hadrian looks up sharply, but Hella’s expression is inscrutable, her hands steady.

“I mean, I met you, right?” he says, and Hella snorts, her expression cracking into a wide grin.  Hadrian thinks he likes that grin.

“I guess that’s true,” she says.  “Here, these should be ready.”

While Hadrian watches, she scores the loaves and slides the flat stone over the campfire.  She makes a careful dome out of gathered tree bark, a crude but effective oven over the hot glowing embers.

“You do this a lot?” Hadrian asks, watching her practiced movements.  She shrugs.

“I like bread,” she says simply, as if that answers all of Hadrian’s questions.  Perhaps it does, he muses, sitting back on his hands and gazing into the glow of the embers.

They sit together in companionable silence while the bread bakes and the sun sets fully below the line of the horizon.

\---

They meet weekly at Hadrian’s home to spar -- he keeps a couple dull practice swords at home, left over from his training days, and there’s a flat dirt circle in the backyard that’s the perfect size.  Sometimes they make plans, but sometimes Hella will just show up at his door and Hadrian can tell by the pinched, tight look on her face what she’s here for.

This afternoon is one of those days.  Hadrian’s cleaning his armor, piece by piece, in the living room when there’s a knock on the door.  He opens it to see Hella, shoulders hunched and brows furrowed.

“Up for a couple rounds?” she asks, and he nods, closing the door behind him and heading around the house to grab the swords from the shed.  He tosses one to Hella who catches it with ease, hefting its weight in her hand.

From there it’s easy, a dance the both of them are too intimately familiar with.  They circle each other, kicking up dust with every footfall, stances low and ready.

Hella swings first, charging toward Hadrian.  He narrowly avoids her blade with a quick sidestep, and the metallic clang rings out in the hot, still air as their swords meet, once above their heads and then again to the side, neither giving ground nor yet putting their full strength behind the blows.

Hadrian manages to catch her off-guard, gets in a nasty hit at her hip, and she takes a step back, shaking off the pain.  They circle warily again, blades steady, but there’s a question on the tip of Hadrian’s tongue.

Hella steps in again and levels a swing at Hadrian’s shoulder, twisting at the last moment to go for his side, but she’s sloppy and distracted and he blocks it easily, stepping back and around.  He draws her out with a quick feint, the bait obvious but she takes it all the same, stepping in to strike at the perceived opening.  He catches her sword on his, twists so it goes sliding off to the side with a painful grinding sound.  She’s forced to twist with her blade and he rests his sword at the back of her neck for a long moment before drawing back to a neutral distance.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, taking a second to catch his breath as Hella recenters herself, features twisted into a rictus of frustration and anger.

“ _ No _ ,” she growls, charging in again.

She manages to catch him this time, a glancing blow along the shoulder -- still sloppy but he’s not as agile as he once was.  He gets in two more hits, along her belly and the side of her leg, hard enough to leave bruises.

“You want -- you want to keep going?”  They’re both sweating now, panting under the midday sun.  He’s giving her an out -- she’s losing, and badly, but she grins, vicious and mean.

“Come on,” she says.  “Can’t you ask Samothes for help?”

He’s tired, fatigued, and he  _ knows _ it’s a taunt but she still looks unbalanced in a way that nothing but getting hit with a sword will fix -- he knows that from experience.

“One more round,” he says, steadies himself and focuses in on the feel of the hilt in his hands, the ground solid beneath his feet, the breath in his lungs, the warmth of His sun on his back.

He charges first this time, grunting as their swords clash between them with all the force they can muster, metallic notes ringing through the air.  It’s frenzied, desperate, both sloppy and tired but unwilling to yield until Hadrian makes one mistake, one slip and Hella catches him by surprise, knocking him to the ground and pressing the tip of her blade to his throat.  She grins down at him.

“Where’s that god of yours now?”

Hadrian breathes deep and steady and hooks a leg around the back of her knee to pull her down onto the dusty ground and twist himself to a kneeling position, sword still in hand.  The breath goes out of her at the impact and her eyes widen when Hadrian’s blade finds its place at her throat instead.

“He guides me, but I’m my own person,” Hadrian replies.  He stands, brushes himself off, and offers a hand.  Hella hesitates a moment before taking it and letting Hadrian pull her to her feet.  They breathe heavily in silence for a long moment before Hadrian claps her on the shoulder.

“Wanna come in?  Rosana’s making dinner.”  Hella rolls her neck, considers.  Her eyes are less wild than they were when she arrived -- now she just looks  _ tired. _  “You know you’re always welcome, Hella,” he says, and she shrugs.

“Sure.”

\---

It’s the night before he’s set to leave with the wizard and the elf ranger and, by all rights, he should be with his family, but instead he’s here, sitting across from Hella at the pub closest to his home.  They’re both nursing beers, resting in the companionable quiet.

“You sure about this?” she asks, finally.  “I don’t know this ranger and I  _ don’t _ trust Fantasmo.”

“I know you don’t,” says Hadrian, tone belying the well-worn nature of this argument between them.  “But the Council asked me to do this, I don’t really have a choice.”  She makes a frustrated noise.

“Of  _ course _ you have a choice.”  Hadrian laughs.

“Hey, don’t talk to me about loyalty, Ordenna,” he says, and she can’t help but crack a smile at that.

“I’m just worried about you.”

“You don’t have to worry, I have Samoth --”

“That’s  _ why _ I’m worried, you idiot.”  She takes a long gulp of her beer.  “No one knows what’s in the goddamn Mark, and I’m pretty sure your god doesn’t know either.”

Hadrian doesn’t reply, takes a drink of this own.  This is a debate he’s never going to win, not with her.  Hella believes in things she can see, things she can touch and smell and taste -- her world is ruled by metal and dirt, not by gods or faith.  Perhaps that’s why they work so well together, he muses.

“Listen... just --” she pauses, reaching over to put a hand on his on the table.  “Just be careful, yeah?  I want you back here alive.”

“You too, Hella.”

She breaks the moment by laughing, low and deep, leaning back in her chair and draining the last of her mug.

“Besides, if you don’t come back, who else is gonna agree to be my punching bag?”

“Hey,” he laughs, grateful for the return to the comforting rhythm of banter between them.  “I give as good as I get and you know it.”

“You wish, church boy.”

The evening turns to dark as they sit there in that pub, basking in warm familiarity before the encroaching unknown swallows them both come morning.


End file.
